


To Save The American Way

by follow_the_sun



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America Merchandise, Christmas Fluff, Dog Cops, Epic Prank War, Gen, Steve Rogers Cannot Be Out-Trolled, Waffle Irons Are Critical Equipment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 04:26:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5525318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/follow_the_sun/pseuds/follow_the_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“It wasn’t the living room rug,” Steve says to Natasha the next morning. He’s got the three-breakfast-meats platter and he’s barely touched it, and if that isn’t evidence of a deeply distressed super soldier, Natasha doesn’t know what is. “And it wasn’t the cookies, the little sugar stars were actually kind of amazing. It wasn’t that he changed the towels in the bathroom or the sheets on my bed or even my damn toothbrush. But if you’d seen him sitting there in nothing but a pair of Captain America boxer shorts, you’d already be helping me apply to Russia for political asylum.”</i>
</p><p>  <i>“Not true,” Natasha says calmly, dipping her knife into the jam jar. “He was also wearing Captain America socks.”</i></p><p>Or: Just in time for Christmas, Bucky discovers the power of Captain America merchandising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Save The American Way

After all the fighting and posturing and shouting is over, after Bucky Barnes has been brought in from the cold, confirmed as a good guy, and installed in Steve’s Avengers Tower apartment until he's successfully reintegrated into society after seventy years of brainwashing and medical torture, Sam is the one who gets to take him on outings. It’s first suggested because he’s got experience in this area, sure, but it _works_ because Bucky trusts Sam more than anyone else except Steve (and a little bit because the high-tech goggles that go with the Falcon gear are as good as a mask, meaning Sam’s got the least chance of attracting attention in public). So when Bucky starts prowling the Tower with increasing restlessness, insisting he’s ready to be out in the world again, it’s Sam who takes him for a look at it. Restaurants are oddly hit or miss (in retrospect, the hibachi place was doomed from the start), but parks and museums are consistently good. And borrowing Lucky for a day at the dog park was a brilliant success, to the point where the lock screen on Sam’s phone is now a picture of the most terrifying assassin in history lying on his back in the dirt and laughing while he gets trampled by an incredibly single-minded Pembroke Welsh corgi.

Steve wants to take Bucky to a baseball game, but Sam feels strongly that they should try, say, a shopping trip before they live-test whether Bucky can handle a crowd of fifty thousand screaming people. He’s surprised when Bucky latches onto the idea and insists that they go _right now,_ and that’s how they end up taking the PATH train across the river on a Monday night to visit a Kohl’s in Jersey City. Technically they’re looking for socks, and maybe a new hoodie to replace the one the corgi chewed the zipper off, but after the fifth iteration of “Do you think Steve would like that?”, it finally clicks in Sam’s head that Bucky is on another of his self-assigned missions: Find the Perfect Christmas Gift for the Super-Soldier Who Has Everything.

Once Sam figures that out, his priorities also change. Things get unpredictable fast with Bucky if a mission ends in failure.

“Hey, shopping for Steve shouldn’t be hard,” he says, trying to project calm reassurance. And actually, it won’t; Steve’s one of approximately twelve people on the planet who sincerely believe it’s the thought that counts, especially coming from Bucky. “I bet there were things you wanted to get him that you couldn’t afford when you were kids.”

“Um,” Bucky says, still a little touchy about the fact that memories don’t always come easy. “He always needed clothes, but he says he has too many now.” (Sam agrees; Pepper Potts’ personal shopper had a field day with Steve a few months back.) “And… art supplies? We never had money for art supplies. I got him a sketchbook for his birthday before I went overseas and he took it on his USO tour. I could get him another one, maybe. And some drawing pencils?”

“Sure, I'll take you to Michaels once we're done here. You'll love it.”

“What about some new kitchen knives?” Bucky says, warming to the subject. “He, um, got kind of upset when I borrowed the vegetable knife for something else one time. He'd probably like to have a new one.”

...Yeah. Steve has told Sam enough of the Saga of the Missing Chef’s Knife for him to know that Bucky’s version omits a number of pertinent details. Maybe he can steer Bucky toward some of the new brightly-colored ceramics. They'll be harder for a paranoid ex-assassin to squirrel away under the couch cushions, at least. “Sure,” he says. “Let me grab those socks and then I'll take you over to the kitchen stuff.”

Bucky draws back, hurt. “I'm a grown man, Sam. I think I can walk across a department store by myself.”

It’s easy to forget that Bucky is neither dumb nor naïve; he’s just easily overwhelmed, and after the last seventy years, no wonder. An apology would only make it worse, though, so Sam just says, “Cool, man,” and turns back to the socks, waiting until Bucky is out of even super-soldier earshot to sigh. 

It takes him about a minute to make his selection (they're  _socks;_ it's not rocket science, whatever Stark’s personal shoppers think), but he lingers for a while, deliberately giving Bucky a few minutes of autonomy before heading over to Housewares. Okay, to be perfectly honest, maybe he's a little concerned, but there are no raised voices or sounds of anything being smashed, so this trip is already going much better than the hibachi incident.

He finds Bucky in front of an end cap, with a colorful box in his hands, staring at it intently. When Sam approaches, he looks up and says, “Sam, why is Steve's shield on a waffle iron?”

Sam takes a deep breath. Of _course,_ left on his own for ten seconds, Bucky has discovered the fruits of Stark Industries’ overzealous marketing department. “Okay, Buck, how much do you know about licensed merchandise?”

“Please, Sam. Your generation didn’t invent marketing. Bing Crosby used to endorse cigarettes, for God’s sake. I just mean, why’s it Steve’s symbol? Why isn't it the Avengers logo or something? Patriotism isn't very popular these days.” His eyes widen in horror. “Tell me this isn't a hipster thing where people like Steve  _ironically.”_

“It isn’t a hipster thing.” Sam wishes there was a place he could sit down for this; it may take a while. “After the Chitauri invasion, everybody wanted Avengers stuff. S.H.I.E.L.D. technically owned the Avengers name, but Stark sent in his team of lawyers and they worked out a deal with where each member got a cut of the proceeds. When they asked Steve where he wanted the checks sent, he said—”

“Let me guess,” Bucky interrupts. “He said he already had more money than he knew what do with and it should go to some charity or something.”

“You got it in one. A hundred percent of the proceeds from the Cap stuff go to a charity that supports wounded vets and the families of POWs. Of course, it's not just Steve—Clint and Natasha both give a lot to orphanages, and Bruce sends a lot of the Hulk money to Doctors Without Borders—but once word got out that Steve wouldn't take a penny for himself, the Cap merchandise started flying off the shelves. People act pretty damn cynical these days, but deep down, they like being associated with a guy who stands for something and puts his money where his mouth is.”

“Huh.” Bucky's right hand has moved up to rub the seam where the metal arm meets the flesh of his left shoulder. He claims he doesn't feel like he has a disability, thanks to the amazing prosthetic, but his body remembers the amputation at a deep level, and Sam can tell he’s moved by Steve’s kindness even though he’s completely unsurprised by it. Sam is glad he didn’t mention that the charity happens to be named the Bucky Barnes Memorial Foundation; Steve is looking into fixing that. “So that's why there's a Captain America waffle iron and not a Black Widow one?”

“Nah, I think we have plain old misogyny to thank for that.”

 “So they sell a lot of Steve swag, do they?”

“Okay, first of all, never say 'Steve swag' again,” Sam says. “But yeah, the waffle iron is just the tip of the iceberg. For a while it was mostly clothes. Hats, jackets, ties—hell, don't ever tell him this, but I had a Cap T-shirt myself before we met.”

“He knows,” Bucky says. “He saw you running in it one time. That's actually why he started trolling you the next time he saw you.”

“Really? First swag, now trolling? Where do you get this stuff?”

“I read. Okay, so T-shirts and waffle irons. What else?”

Sam smiles. “Follow me, pal. I'm about to show you the true meaning of Christmas.”

Ten minutes later, Sam has the dubious honor of having rendered the Winter Soldier temporarily speechless. “It’s a snow globe,” he finally says, after a long moment. “It’s a _fucking snow globe._ With a little model of Steve in it.”

“You think that’s good, look at the bottom.”

“Ew. Get your mind out of the gutter, Wilson.”

“Of the snow globe,” Sam says, with exaggerated patience. First rule of Bucky Barnes: a Bucky who's being a sarcastic asshole is a happy Bucky. “There’s a switch you wind up to play music.”

“Wow, a snow globe _and_ a music box,” Bucky says dryly. “Golly, the future is neat.” He turns it over in his left hand, carefully turning the little lever with his right until the chiming music begins.

Four notes in, Bucky starts—Sam _never_ thought he’d see this—giggling. A few bars later, he’s laughing so hard that Sam has to take the snow globe out of his hand before he breaks it. Sam has never seen Bucky let go like this. It’s like getting a rare glimpse into the Bucky of before, the guy Steve still describes when he talks about Bucky, not the twitchy, hesitant guy everyone else sees from day to day. He’s about to get out his phone and make a Vine of this for Steve when Bucky suddenly says, “How much money am I allowed to spend, Sam?”

Money is a tricky subject with Bucky; the same guy who can tell you exactly what you’d pay a “reputable” dealer for a hundred black market Kalashnikovs just about loses his mind when confronted with a $1.29 can of soup. Sam decides to answer honestly. “Even as much as Steve gives away, he does still have more than he knows what to do with, and there’s definitely nothing he’d rather spend it on than making your dumb ass happy,” he says. “And he gave me his credit card for this trip. Go on, Little Orphan Annie. Go wild.”

In retrospect, honesty is not always the best policy, whatever Steve says about it.

 

The first thing Steve notices when he comes home is the heavenly smell. Sam had mentioned something about baking Christmas cookies afterward if the shopping trip went well, and Steve is so delighted by the confirmation that he completely forgets to do his usual visual sweep of the apartment for lurking Hydra operatives, bleeding S.H.I.E.L.D. directors, or (possibly worst of all) evidence that Romanoff has broken in and redecorated. ”Hey Buck, hey Sam,” he says, and walks past Bucky, who’s curled up in a blanket on the sofa with his eyes locked on an episode of _Dog Cops,_ to get to the baked goods. “Shopping was good, then?”

“Went fine,” Sam says, the tremor in his voice barely noticeable.

“Great,” Steve says. “Because if you’re both up for it, I was thinking tomorrow we could all go out and get a Christmas tree.” He snags one of the cookies and shoves it in his mouth, closing his eyes at the burst of sugar. “Sam,” he says, with his mouth full, “you’re an angel from heaven. These are fantastic. Is this your mom’s recipe? Because if it is, tell her that--”

That’s when the music starts.

Steve freezes, with half a cookie in his mouth, and very slowly turns toward the source of the upbeat chime ringing through the apartment to a tune he knows all too well.

_Who’s strong and brave, here to save the American way…_

Steve swallows the mouthful of suddenly dry and tasteless cookie, then walks across the room and kneels in front of the coffee table. He picks up the snow globe, which Bucky has just shaken up, and examines his own image in miniature, poised with a tiny shield raised.

_Who’s here to fight like a man for what’s right, night and day..._

“Where the hell did you find this?” 

“Language, Rogers,” Bucky chides, sitting up. 

“But, I was supposed to have approval on a prototype of anything that used my image,” Steve says, voice faint. “I... I wouldn’t’ve... goddammit, Buck...”

“Is a Christmas decoration really the thing you want to talk about right now, Cap?” Sam says, very quietly.

That’s when Steve raises his eyes and looks, really  _looks_ at Bucky, and the snow globe falls from his suddenly nerveless fingers.

“Jesus!” Bucky dives for the globe, snatching it just before it hits the floor. “Be careful, punk, do you know how much licensed Avengers merchandisecosts nowadays? Besides, if you’re going to drop a snow globe, it’s like a law that you have to say ‘Rosebud’ first.”

“And if you’re going to spoil _Citizen Kane,_ you should make sure your best friend saw the whole movie,” Steve says, but it’s clear that it’s completely reflexive snark; he probably doesn’t even know what just came out of his mouth, judging from his glassy-eyed stare.

“Come on, it’s literally been seventy-five years, you can’t still be sore about that.” Bucky settles the blanket back around his shoulders. “Dammit, I was all comfortable and you made me get up.”

Steve is mostly just making incoherent noises now, but he manages to spit out, “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, Buck, what are you  _wearing?”_

 

“It wasn’t the living room rug,” Steve says to Natasha the next morning. He’s got the three-breakfast-meats platter and he’s barely touched it, and if that isn’t evidence of a deeply distressed super soldier, Natasha doesn’t know what is. “And it wasn’t the cookies, the little sugar stars were actually kind of amazing. It wasn’t that he changed the towels in the bathroom or the sheets on my bed or even my damn toothbrush.But if you’d seen him sitting there in nothing but a pair of Captain America boxer shorts, you’d already be helping me apply to Russia for political asylum.”

“Not true,” Natasha says calmly, dipping her knife into the jam jar. “He was also wearing Captain America socks.”

Steve drops his fork. “Are you surveilling my apartment?”

“Of course not. Bucky has learned how to take selfies. He’s very proud.” Natasha carefully keeps her eyes on the toast, rather than risking eye contact. If she lets herself laugh, she’s pretty sure Steve will actually burst into flame. “You should be thinking of this as great progress for Bucky. You’ve told us all a thousand times that you two used to prank each other relentlessly. Look at it as a blessing that he’s acting like his old self.”

“I’ll look at it as a blessing,” Steve says, “when I can get through breakfast in my own apartment without hearing a theme song that should’ve been retired in 1943. And you know what the worst thing is? Now he knows it bothers me. He’s like a dog with a bone when he finds out something like that.”

“Are you just venting,” Natasha asks, “or do you want my help with this?”

“Pretty sure nobody can help me with this.”

“O ye of little faith.” Natasha pulls a slim black phone from her bag, taps on the screen for a moment, then slides it across the table to him.

Steve’s jaw drops. “You can still buy these?”

“You have to look around a little, but that one’s on eBay, and it has a buy-it-now button, so yeah.”

“Natasha Romanoff,” Steve says, “you’re an evil genius.”

Natasha shrugs. She’s not going to argue with Captain America about that one.

 

In retrospect, Bucky realizes he should have suspected something was up, because when Steve really, really, really hates something, the very last thing he should do is get real quiet about it. But that’s exactly what Steve does for the next week. He simply shuts up and stops reacting. It doesn’t matter how many light-up Cap pens are handed to him by innocent-faced Stark Industries employees, or how many Cap-branded bags of Doritos Stark lobs in his direction at Avengers movie night, or how many shield-waffles make their way onto his plate at breakfast (Bucky has picked up a  _second_ waffle iron that makes four mini-waffles instead of one large one; it has the additional options of Stark’s Iron Man mask, Thor’s Hammer, and Hulk’s fist, but he’ll happily spend four times as long making breakfast in order to stick to the theme). In fact, he only mentions it once in the two weeks leading up to Christmas, when Bucky heads down to the practice range wearing a Captain America headband, and even then he restricts his comments to, “That makes you look really stupid. I guess that’s what they mean by truth in advertising.”

Bucky actually likes the headband; life is just better when he doesn’t have to deal with sweaty hair in his face. But Steve goes right back to reading his book and doesn’t say anything else about it.

Which is where they stand on Christmas Eve.

Traditionally, it’s a low-key thing for the two of them: warm blankets, hot chocolate on the stove, the Decca Christmas album on the stereo. This year Sam and Natasha are also invited, because frankly, it’s a great excuse to leave Stark’s massive penthouse party before things get out of hand. Natasha has just introduced Bucky to the concept of stirring hot chocolate with a candy cane, and he’s just told her, without a trace of his usual irony, that the future really  _is_ amazingly wonderful, when Steve says abruptly, “Hey, let’s do presents.”

“Presents are for Christmas morning,” Bucky says, bemused. Steve is the one who’s usually the stickler for the rules.

“Well, there’s more than one for everybody under the tree,” Steve says. “Why don’t we each open one tonight? C’mon, Buck, just for fun.”

Bucky owes Steve more than he’ll ever be able to process in his own head, much less reasonably expect to repay, and the truth is, when Steve asks him seriously for something, he finds it impossible to say no. “I guess if you’re Captain America, you get to make your own rules,” he fake-grumbles, getting up to find the wrapped sketchbook under the tree.

“Nah, you sit, Bucky, I want you to have yours first.” Steve hands him a box wrapped in shiny paper—silver with red stars; that’s kind of sweet. It’s about the size of a shoebox—actually, once he gets the paper off, it’s definitely a shoebox, but he can tell it’s not shoes even before he lifts the lid and pulls out a layer of tissue paper. Then he sits, poleaxed, silently staring into the box, for long enough that Sam has to break the silence. “Okay, so what is it?”

“Have you ever heard of Bucky Bears, Sam?” Steve asks.

“That’s not ringing a bell…”

“During the war, they used to put Bucky next to me in the newsreels,” Steve explains, while Bucky still stares mutely at the toy. It’s nothing much by today’s plush stuffed animal standards; looks like a pretty stock teddy bear to Sam, although it’s dressed up in a kind of ridiculous blue costume with red trim and a black mask over its eyes.  “So for Christmas of 1943, this toymaker got the idea of selling Captain America and Bucky teddy bears. Turned out the Bucky bears were the ones that really took off. They were ridiculously popular, even for a couple of years after the war ended. Bucky’s sister sent him one while we were stationed in London—you remember that, Buck? The Commandos had this epic prank war going with it, where they’d hide it in your stuff and sneak it into your tent at night. It was hilarious.”

“So all the little kids back home who were playing Captain America with garbage-can lids for shields wanted sidekicks of their own, huh?” Sam says. He’s pretty sure he sees where Steve is going with this: there’s going to be one of those classic Steve speeches about loyalty and friendship, and then there’s probably going to be hugging and crying and a lot of feelings getting let out because after all, it’s Christmas. He glances at Natasha, trying to signal her that the two of them should probably figure out an exit strategy before things get too emotional, but she’s watching Bucky, and her expression suggests that the feeling overwhelming her is definitely not the Christmas spirit.

“No,” Steve says, “I don’t think it was because they wanted to pretend they were me. I think it was because they all recognized what a good friend Bucky was to me, and they loved the toys so much because it felt like they had a friend like that.”

“Man, that’s really incredibly sweet,” Sam says, just before Bucky comes flying across the coffee table.

The tree comes down twelve seconds later, but the smashed ornaments and scattered tinsel can be cleaned up. The dent in the wall, on the other hand, is going to need professional repair. Sam hopes Tony won’t gripe about it too much. After all, it’s Christmas.

 

Clint Barton has been palling around with Bucky Barnes occasionally since Bucky helped him run off some thugs who were harassing his tenants a few months ago; Clint appreciated the assist, and Bucky seemed to enjoy getting to shout abuse at tracksuited bros in a minimum of six Eastern European languages. So when Bucky texts him on December 26 and asks if either he or the residents of his building in Bed-Stuy might want a bunch of random Captain America-themed household goods, Clint replies, “Sure, I guess.” Half an hour later, a car pulls up, and Bucky gets out, waves, and signs Clint’s ASL name—a _C_ being drawn back like a bowstring—before spelling out, _bro._

“Bro,” Clint responds out loud, pointing to indicate that his hearing aid hasn’t been blown up or destroyed recently. “What the hell happened to you?”

“What, this?” Bucky motions to his face, currently sporting a black eye, a split lip, and a couple of butterfly stitches across his temple. “Okay,” he admits, “this looks bad.”

“Damn right it does. What happened, man? If there was an attack on the Tower and they didn’t call me—”

“You ever heard of Bucky Bears?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, sure,” Clint says. “I had one when I was a kid. Used to sleep all curled up with _oh my God_ that was based on you. Oh, man, that is so disturbing. So what, did Stark make you a robot bear for Christmas and you had to stop it from blowing up Sokovia?” Bucky glares at him, and Clint asks, “What, too soon?”

“No, Steve bought me one for Christmas.” Bucky sighs, grabbing a box from the back seat and motioning for Clint to do the same. If there’s anything Clint doesn’t want, Bucky figures he can give it to Daredevil, who’s reportedly blind and so probably won’t mind if he ends up with an apartment full of red, white, and blue stuff with Steve’s shield and/or face plastered all over it. Meanwhile, Bucky knows for sure that Clint can use the waffle iron. “He out-trolled me, Barton. I didn’t think it was possible, but he did it. I concede defeat in the prank war. You really can’t beat Captain America.”

“But what happened to your _face,_ man?”

“Oh. I might’ve gotten a little emotional about the situation and, uh, hit Steve over the head with a Christmas tree.”

Clint’s eyes widen. “Is _he_ okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. He’s not even mad—you know how he is.” Bucky lowers his eyes, abashed. “I didn’t mean to, but… well, Sam thinks I’ve been suppressing my emotions around Steve because I was afraid I’d revert to the Hydra programming under emotional duress. He keeps telling me I was overdue for a blowup, and that I’ll make better progress now that I know it’s okay to openly express it when I’m frustrated about something.”

“’S that what you think?”

“No, I think I just really hate that fucking bear. Anyway, Natasha pulled me off him and—she said you’d know what ‘cognitive recalibration’ meant?—and we’re fine now. Still kind of frustrated, though, because now I’m never going to be able to get him back for this.”

“Oh,” Clint says, pulling a Captain America tote bag out of a box, “I don’t know. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

“What do you mean?”

“You learned how to take pictures on your phone, right? And you did say once that when Steve’s asleep, almost nothing wakes him up…”

“Barton,” Bucky says, “you’re an evil genius.”

“Just do me a favor and don’t tell Natasha I gave you the idea.”

 

Bucky refuses to have an account (or at least, refuses to _admit_ that he has an account) on Instagram, Tumblr, or Twitter, but he has Tony Stark’s private cell phone number, and Tony Stark is one of the most followed human beings on social media. When the text comes in from Bucky at one in the morning on December 27, he’s still up, in the workshop, tinkering with the latest version of the armor in the glow of the blinking multicolored Christmas lights draped over DUM-E. He looks at the photo of Steve Rogers, sound asleep on the sofa of his apartment with a stuffed Bucky Bear tucked under his arm, for several minutes before saying, “Friday, throw this up on the social media with the caption ‘Happy Holidays from the greatest soldier America has ever known.’”

Maybe, he thinks, Bucky Barnes isn’t such a bad guy to have around after all.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a not-a-sequel to [The Ballad of Bucky Bear](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4321734). Feel free to assume any and all ship(s) you desire. ^_^
> 
> Clint’s ASL Name Sign is from [Bland Marvel Headcanons](http://blandmarvelheadcanons.tumblr.com/post/96785304332/clint-has-given-each-avenger-a-name-in-sign).
> 
> The snow globe [is 100% real](https://www.pinterest.com/pin/302022718745316611/) though sadly no longer available from Kohl's. I have a version that plays Jingle Bells. However, and I swear I am not making this up, there is a version that plays "Let It Go" from _Frozen_.
> 
> All of the other Captain America swag is based on real items, including the cookie cutters.
> 
> [The Tumblr post for this fic is [here](http://follow-the-sun-fanfic.tumblr.com/post/146675999605/to-save-the-american-way-followthesun-marvel).]


End file.
